Page 335 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Why did she always have to be so kind all the goddamn time. I nodded, hoping she didn’t see the lump forming in my throat. “I have something for you, in case things get tricky. We’re close.”

“How close?”

“A week. Did you finish your business?” Her arched brow made it clear she knew I hadn’t.

“Waiting on something,” I muttered.

Her gaze sharpened, head tilting like a cat locking onto prey. “Interesting. You intend to take the sister as your second.”

My jaw tightened. “Does Aren know?”

“That in eight out of ten threads, you bring us an army? Yes. How you do it? No. Aren is currently burdened with essential information, and nothing more.”

I’d take that as her stamp of approval. Thanks very much.

“And the two outliers?”

Her nostrils flared like a predator’s before she straightened. “You lose.”

So…death. Got it.

A chorus of screams turned our heads toward one of the enormous spinning rides. Metal creaked. Carnival lights spun in dizzying arcs. Somewhere, someone was singing in a makeshift amphitheater. A gaggle of teens fought over turkey legs.

Mortals. Laughing. Celebrating. Blind to the cliff they teetered on.

When I turned back, Ally had drawn something from her bag: a tiny gold hourglass, its sand already trickling between chambers.

“Finish it,” she said, holding it out. “I need you back before the last grain falls.”

Rolling my lip between my teeth, I took it and inclined my head to study the trinket. That wasn’t a week of sand. Not even close. Nerves coiled in my gut. I suddenly wanted nothing to do with the fun house. I wanted Cyrus. I wanted to tell him the truth.

Tomorrow, Calypso would be marked Heiress.

And once she was, I’d be free to strike. She might be young, but she had potential. So did her brother.

Composing myself, I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Time is a delicate thing, Freya. Not all futures are minted. Some choices are broken before they’re even made.”

Her words echoed for the next hour.

When I returned to Blythe’s bungalow, Cyrus was surrounded by a battlefield of papers and sticky notes. His hair was a mess—clearly the result of repeatedly tying it up and yanking it loose.

“There’s a gap,” he said by way of greeting.

“What?”

“In their children. There’s a gap, Freya.”

“Okay?”

“Bastien, Caius, Levana, Sirin, and the twins were each born eighteen months apart. Then, suddenly, there’s a three-year gap before Agamemnon.”

I wrinkled my nose. “You pee two watermelons out back-to-back and tell me you’re ready for round three.”

“First—ouch. Second—not the same thing. But it feels…ceremonial. Patterned.”

I squinted. “Like…the sex?”